


Things I'll never say. Thoughts I'll never mention.

by AlessNox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Masturbation, Regret, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessNox/pseuds/AlessNox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Masturbates the night before John's wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He turns off the water and stands for a moment in the steam.

Transport.

That's all that this body is, but even machines need maintenance and it's about time...time for that again.

He picks up a towel and dries his hair, then his chest and his legs and between his legs. He walks over and takes his bathrobe off of the hook wrapping it around him to hide his nudity. He didn't used to care about such things as a child of two or three. Mother would talk about how he used to take off his clothes and run around naked. She would chastise him for showing his naughty parts, but he kept on doing it, until father bought him his first set of superhero underpants, and then he would run around the house with a towel as a cape as he pretended to be superman, and mother was relatively content, but she still wanted him to put on his trousers.

His hair drips on his face, so he wraps a towel around his head, then he uses the back of his hand to wipe the mirror so that he can see himself as he brushes his teeth.

He had loved those special underpants so much that they had bought him new ones every Christmas until he was considered too old for such things at about nine years old. In protest, he wore the underpants anyway, even though they quickly became too small for the boy. And then Lillian Frank had refused to take his hand on the playground during a game. When the teacher asked her why, she said that she wouldn't touch the hand that he used to rub himself off everyday. The others had laughed at that, and the teacher had looked shocked. Sherlock's neck and face turned red. How could he explain that he was only adjusting his pants because they were too tight. That evening, he threw them all into the rubbish bin.

He spits and washes out his mouth before brushing his tongue and rinsing again. Then he dries his hair letting the towel hang down and cover his face.

He had wanted to cover his face everyday after that. He made sure never to have his hands near his crotch again, and when he lay in bed, and the urges came upon him, he covered his face and tried to sleep. But in the morning he would find that his body had betrayed him when he saw the stains on the sheets. Those stains had led, some years later, to the most embarrassing talk that he had ever had with his brother. Mycroft had walked into his bedroom and tossed him a package of washcloths. He pulled the chair over from the desk and sat down before pointing at the stains on the sheets.

"I heard the maids talking about you," he had said. "They thought it strange that you were still having wet dreams at your age. You're not touching yourself, are you?"

Sherlock had opened his mouth, but what could he say to that? He closed it again.

"The human male makes two hundred million sperm a day, and they will come out no matter what you do. It is simply a matter of maintenance to learn to control these urges. If you dampen the washcloth with warm water then you can wrap it around the tip of your penis and minimize the mess."

"But...how..." he had spoken before horrible embarrassment froze him to the headboard and his face began to redden again.

"You simply stroke your penis while imagining someone whom you ...regard with fondness. Then it will mostly take care of itself."

Sherlock had shivered in his bed in horror that night, and refused to sleep until Mycroft had left for school again. Then he started using the washcloths, and checked his sheets each morning before he made his bed.

 

Sherlock ran the water until it was hot, and then he took down a washcloth, dampening one edge, and then rolling it up so that it did not drip as he walked out of the room.

He shut the door firmly and peered out of the window before closing and locking it. Then he closed the curtains and removed his robe hanging it on the hook. He walked over to the bed and hung the washcloth over the edge of the headboard before sitting down naked on the coverlet. He sat back, widening his legs, then he touched his pubic hair before pulling his hand away.

He had been a moody teen, but he never understood why his mother had sent him to talk to a priest about his problems. He had asked about his friends, "what friends?" and his dreams, "dark" and what he thought about when he was alone in his room. Somehow the subject came up, and he mentioned that when he touched himself, he thought of Mr Green the chemistry teacher. He was someone who Sherlock regarded with fondness. The priest was not amused. He told him in no uncertain terms that he would burn in hell for lying with another man, and that it would be better to strike off his hand than to use it in that way.

That priest was an idiot. He knew that now, but he still felt shame at the first touch of his hand on himself, and he still worried about his thoughts.

He had been even more conflicted after the talk with the priest, but he soon found a solution. He had imagined a 'friend'. His friend was neither a man nor a woman. He was a ghostly creature of thought, and he had no name. He could change his hips to be wide or narrow. His breasts to be large or flat, whatever was needed to complete the fantasy. This fantasy friend took him well into adulthood when others, who were not his friends, pressed him to take them to his bed. He didn't want them, even though his body betrayed him sometimes. He didn't trust them. They wanted something that he didn't want to give. Being with them would have placed him in a false position, as the softer emotions were not something that he wished to express or feel.

He touched the hair on his chest and traced it down to the pad of curly black hairs below. He softly caressed himself before wrapping his hand around his cock and pulling a long, slow stoke. His buttocks contracted, and he sighed out a breath.

He had never found it easy to do this. He knew that it was necessary. He knew that, in it's way, it helped him to give the impression that he had no sexual desires at all, a myth that he enjoyed as it prevented others from making advances on him. Even so, he knew that others did not have his hangups. They did not think so much about the act. For them it was much more automatic and easy. Take John Watson for example.

When John Watson had first moved into the flat, he had masturbated frequently. Sherlock would hear him moaning in his bed at night and in the shower in the mornings. He had taken to cataloging the frequency of his ejaculations, and was astounded that anyone could do it that often. John's sex drive was a huge part of who he was. Sherlock knew how attractive a woman was by the length of his stare. He would ask out women that he had just met, and more often than not, they said yes. Sherlock wondered why John was the way he was. Was it an increase in hormone levels, larger sex organs, influences in the womb? He wasn't able to satisfactorily solve that problem. Even so, it had little relevance to his own. As he had aged, the friend of his childhood wasn't enough to give him reliable release anymore, leading to hours of discomfort. He envied John the ease of his orgasms even as he was distressed by their frequency.

One night, when John was away and release would not come, Sherlock decided to look at John's laptop. It was easy enough to find the porn sites from his history. He opened the files and watched as women rode men's cocks, and they licked and sucked and wrapped them up in their breasts. He fidgeted in his seat as he watched them. There was indeed something arousing about the images, more arousing than what he had been imagining. He had taken a washcloth and set one video to play from the beginning, watching the woman disrobe, watching her cry out as she touched herself. He stroked himself up and down, and found that he was getting hard. This was working. Then he lay back his head on the couch and imagined the woman in the room with him touching him. He froze. All of the desire bled from him in a wave of fear and embarrassment. The woman was a stranger. He didn't want her to touch him. Her face changed as she watched and an older and more well endowed Lillian Frank criticized him for touching himself. He closed the laptop and went back into his room.

The next morning, John told him that he should exit the window after watching porn on his laptop, and he had smirked at Sherlock who quickly found an excuse to leave the flat. He had to step into an alley and wait for the red to leave his face and neck before continuing on. There were a few more attempts, but they also were failures. He could not get excited imagining that woman touching him, especially when he knew that she was a diabetic single mother of three children under five who occasionally used methamphetamines. He despaired ever finding a solution to his constant frustration but then things changed.

Moriarty kidnapped John. Sherlock didn't understand how he could have ever thought of Moriarty as fun, when he had casually threatened John's life while smiling at Sherlock as if they were on a date. Sherlock's blood had gone chill. After that night, if Sherlock thought of Moriarty, any desire that he felt in his loins went cold as ice. It didn't help that he knew that Moriarty thought of him in a romantic way. The image of Moriarty touching himself while thinking of Sherlock beside John's cold and lifeless body was one that threatened to make him vomit. But although he found that he could now turn off his libido at will, the body will do what it must. Sherlock was grateful then that John never remarked on how, although he sent his other clothes out to be cleaned, he always washed his own sheets.

Irene Adler was a godsend. She walked into his life naked and beautiful, and took the place of his imaginary friend. He didn't trust her, no indeed not, but he didn't have to imagine her touching him to get hard. In fact, one memorable night, he simply imagined her standing over him on his bed and reading out the periodic table. John's smile the next morning had been insufferable. He gave naked Irene a permanent place in the bedroom of his mind palace, and for once in his life, he had no trouble taking care of those needs. He was happier. He was more relaxed, and he felt that he could better relate to John. Then Moriarty returned.

Imaginary friends were nothing to real friends, and Sherlock only had one real friend. That was John. But Sherlock could hardly look at John without seeing the large target that Moriarty had drawn on his back. He became agitated and nervous and Irene didn't work for him anymore. She was one of his, after all. Sherlock would work until he collapsed, and when he felt the need, he tried to think of nothing while he did it. He closed his eyes and imagined blackness. Blackness, and his own hand on his cock. But slowly the hands changed. They became smaller and more weathered, tanned, strong and yet nimble. These hands reached out and stroked him gently and then firmly and gave him release. Sherlock sighed.

The next few weeks, he relied on those hands when he was alone in the shower or huddled in his bed after cases. They caressed him. They calmed him, and he became a bit more like himself. It was the day before the case of the ambassador's children, while imagining that warm hand wrapped around him, that he first saw, in his minds eye, a watch that was familiar. The hand that had brought him to pleasure even more reliably than the image of Irene. The hand that had touched him more gently than his own, was one that he knew. One that he should have recognized by now. It was John Watson's hand.

When he walked out of the bedroom that morning and stared at John Watson, it was with new eyes. He had never known that he could want anyone real, but he knew now that he could want John Watson that way. He never answered when someone asked if he was gay or straight because such labels meant nothing to him. He was simply unavailable. But when it came to sexual fantasies, John, or at least part of him, was enough to make Sherlock go hard. It was shocking. He held his coat tightly around him as if it would shield him from the revelation, but before he could even come to terms with it, he was on the roof, and about to leave John for who knows how long. He didn't know how he felt about it, but he knew he was losing an opportunity that he hadn't known was there. It might have meant something. They might have had something, but then, he was dead to John, and any of those thoughts had died with him.

Or so he had thought, until he found himself alone in a hotel room in Budapest curled up on a hard bunk with a hard future ahead of him and he reached down into his pants to find John sitting there beside him. The harsh grey lighting and the cold was enough to keep Irene away, but John was a soldier and a doctor. He would give Sherlock what he needed. He wrapped both hands around him and sucked on his nipples while Sherlock bashed his head against the ugly green wallpaper and came all over his chest. Then as he sunk down onto the bed he heard, "That was amazing," before his eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep.

For the next two years, his dream John was his only companion. He spoke in his ear, criticized his work, encouraged him when he needed it, and drove him to higher states of pleasure than he had ever felt. So when Mycroft finally brought him home, Sherlock's first thought was to find the real John to replace his fantasy companion. It was a shock to see him in the flesh, and the mustache was the least of it. Sherlock was shocked to find that his imagined John was so less real than the real one. John had a presence that made Sherlock tingle. He had a smell. How had Sherlock forgotten his smell? And when he laid hands on Sherlock, yes, he was trying to strangle him, but they were his hands! Sherlock was overwhelmed.

Then he met Mary. When she offered to help him convince John to accept him, he was filled with such a fondness for her, that he quite forgot to be jealous. That night, after he had cleaned up all of the blood and had a shower, he went back to his bed. He lay his hand on his lap, but his fantasy John would not come. How could it when he had seen the real one? He tried Irene, but one look at her reminded him of Moriarty, and he banished her back into the mind palace. He needed something new. Something safe to imagine, then he saw blond hair and a pleasant smile, Mary. He looked at her and stroked himself once before the image of John came and stood before him frowning and "Oh God!" He still had that ugly mustache.

"Mary is mine!" he said standing in front of Mary so that Sherlock couldn't see her anymore, and then he rushed toward the bed and stroked Sherlock deep and fast until he came so hard that his semen landed on his own shoulder. When John Watson finally came to see him in his flat, he couldn't get rid of his parents fast enough. Because even though he knew that his fantasies had no hope of coming true, they reinforced the fact that John Watson was the only person who Sherlock truly trusted. He had never trusted anyone like he trusted John, so he took a chance and trusted that John would want to return to him again, and he did. John's forgiveness filled Sherlock with more joy and more gratitude than he had ever felt in his life.

He knew that John didn't want him that way. He knew that John was with Mary. He liked Mary. He would do anything to make John happy, so he became the best man that John wanted. He read and he practiced and he tried to do everything by the book, which was why he was confused when before he could invite Mike Stamford and Lestrade on their Stag night, John had shook his head.

"I was hoping," John said, "that this could just be between you and me."

Sherlock didn't mind having John to himself. In fact, he preferred it, so he had smiled at John and nodded, and John had smiled back. As Sherlock lay here on the bed naked, the night before John's wedding, he remembered how John had only wanted to be with him. He stroked his chest and pumped his penis remembering John's smile, and his laugh. The way they had lain side by side on the steps, and when they played that silly game, he had leaned forward and put his hand just here on my knee as he said, " I don't mind."

Sherlock stopped stroking. Then he sat up. What had John meant by that? It wasn't connected to what he had said before, or what he said after. It was an independent sentence. A separate thought from the silly game that he hadn't understood. Had he meant? Could it have possibly been...a sexual advance?

Sherlock crossed his legs and his mind raced down pathways as he tried to remember details, statistics. Places rarely touched on men. Places touched during sexual advances. Then he replayed the scene in his head from many angles. He was lying back just so. John was leaning forward, his hand on his knee, and the phrase, "I don't mind." What didn't he mind?

What if all of this time while I have been imagining him as unattainable, he has been imagining the same of me? What if while I lay in my bed imagining his hands on me, he was imagining mine on him? What if all of those months when I couldn't sleep without hearing his voice in my head, he heard my voice in his?

I trust him.

I trust him like I trust no other.

If I asked him if he had ever wanted me, if he wanted me now? What would he say? What would he say if I fell on my knees and opened his trousers and held his cock in my mouth? What would he say if I asked him to help me come? Would he stare at me in horror? Would he laugh it off? Or would he tell me that he has been waiting...waiting all of this time for me to make my feelings known?

Sherlock frowned and looked aside. Does he want me? Does he care for me?

Then he remembered the shock on John's face at his return. That moment of hope. That glimpse of a heart once broken coming back to life. And he remembered John saying "I want to be up there with the two people that I love and care about most in the world. Mary Morstan, and You."

Sherlock closed his eyes then and simply imagined John's face. His mouth fell open and he ran his finger across his lips remembering how often John licked his own. And he imagined John licking _his_ lips. His hips bucked and he clenched his buttocks as he felt it coming. John, so incredibly handsome in his wedding suit. John smiling at him on the bench so that he had to leave before someone noticed how his neck was turning red. John commanding the others to call an ambulance as he pushed Sherlock's hands down on a wounded man. He could see those hands on his body and he came crying out loudly as he shuddered, the bed squeaking in time with his aftershocks.

Afterwards he lay open and relaxed, and then he reached up for the cloth, opening it and wiping his chest and groin as he tried to get his breathing back to normal. He smiled and lay there in a state of contented bliss for a time that he refused to count. It was only when he noticed the sounds of morning that he rose to go to the bathroom and get dressed.

He bounced around his room on his toes and looked at his not yet completed waltz. He put on the tape and counted the beat. One. two. three. One. two. three. Then he imagined John dancing with him. An easy enough thing to do, they had done it right here in the flat. What if, while dancing, he leaned John in a dip and kissed him? Would that make his feelings plain? Yes, a kiss would be the answer to all of his questions. It would tell him if John reciprocated his feelings. He would know if his fantasy John could be banished to the closet of the bedroom in his mind palace in favor of a real John.

Mrs Hudson interrupted him and gave him tea reminding him that this was John's wedding day. The most important day of his life, he had claimed. What would John think if Sherlock kissed him now? If Sherlock asked him now to become something more than friends? What would he do if Sherlock kissed him on the dance floor at his own wedding? Punch him most likely. Yell at him, most definitely, because John had said that he loved two people, and the wedding was John and Mary's day.

He looked at John's chair and realized that it would remain empty. John had chosen another home, another life, another love.

Mary's image stood beside him now, and when he looked at her, he realized what a formidable opponent she was: Kind and soft enough to appeal to John's desire to protect, strong and interesting enough to make even Sherlock like her while being clever enough not to stand between John and their work together.

He couldn't say anything, not today, not on John's Wedding day. He put his image of John in the bedroom of his mind palace and locked the door. His desires had been so easy to ignore before, when he hadn't cared for anyone. Now that he did, it was as if he was at war with himself. He had to fight every moment to keep himself from grabbing John Watson and telling him the revelation that he had made. To keep from telling him that they could work together, that they could have been happy.

But _could have beens_ were only fantasies. All of these thoughts were fantasies, and you shouldn't confuse fantasy with reality. Not now, not ever.

Today Sherlock would watch the man that he loved marry another. She would be the one to kiss him. She would be the one to swear her love. He would stand stiffly by and fight every second to keep himself from taking John in his arms and kissing him, or locking the church door and insisting that the two of them be married instead. He would have to fight his own desires, his own certainties, because he is certain now that if things had been only slightly different, then John and he could have been, would have been!

He frowns then as resolve fills him. He can do this for John. He will do this for John. He will stand by and do nothing, because he won't let anything ruin this day for him. He takes off his robe and tosses it into a chair before reaching out for his wedding suit.

"Right then! Into battle."


	2. End Notes

When I chose my pseudonym (Moire) I thought that this meant that I could post semi-anonymously under another name. I didn't realize that this was just a pen name and that my other username would be included in parenthesis for all to see.

I used a pen name because this is an explicit work, and at that time I had not written very many with that tag. I am still not sold on explicit works. I think that in many cases, the sex descriptions are gratuitous. Even so, one can't write about masturbation without mentioning sex, so the E rating was necessary.

I think that I will use the Moire tag as a sort of training ground. A place to experiment. I decided to move this work over to my Alessnox tag because I still think of this as one of my most effective pieces of writing. I'm hoping that it will put it at the top of my list, or perhaps lead to a tumblr reblog as I am too embarrassed of the rating to reblog. Anyway, I hope that this end note doesn't disturb you. I don't even know if it will work. Wish me luck!


End file.
